job, mostly because there were so many people who, like my parents, were out of work. And there were few jobs available, since so many businesses had closed. It was a long time before my father found work at the factory, and it certainly wasnât the sort of job heâd been seeking. But he was in no position to turn it down.â
âDo you remember the day of the fire?â asked Flora.
Mary shook her head. âI was only about two years old. But my mother sometimes talked about the day. She would talk about it the way people talk about September eleventh now, because it was the worst tragedy she could remember, and it affected so many people in town. She would start off by saying that the day was beautiful. It was an early summer day, very warm, with a clear blue sky. She always mentioned the clear blue sky, I think because when the fire started burning, the sky became smoky for miles around. Even people in other towns could smell the smoke. As soon as word spread about the fire, the families of the factory workers began gathering to wait for news. My mother joined them, but she left me with a neighbor. She waited outside the factory for hours, then came home and waited some more.â
Mary stopped talking, so Flora said, because she had heard Mary say this before, âAnd your father never came home. Right?â
âRight. My mother checked at the hospital, of course, and at hospitals in other towns. But my father wasnât located, and ⦠he never came home. So my mother and I put together a life for ourselves. We werenât wealthy, but we didnât do badly. I think you know the rest of the story, Flora.â
Flora switched off the recorder. âYes. Thank you for telling me this part in your own words. When I go home, Iâll write them down.â
Flora set the recorder on a table, along with her notebook. She looked out the window, looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall, watched Delilah twitch in her sleep. Flora opened her mouth, then closed it. She drew in a breath, tried to speak, but instead reached over to scratch Daphne, who had rolled onto her back and was purring loudly.
âFlora? Is there something you want to say?â asked Mary.
âYes. But I donât know how to say it.â Flora retrieved her notebook and turned to the pages on which sheâd taken notes when she interviewed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. âI have to tell you something,â she said at last.
âAll right,â said Mary gently.
âWhen I talked to Mrs. Fitzpatrick,â Flora began, âshe said something ⦠I really donât know how to say this.â
âPlease. Just tell me what she said.â
âShe said that her mother had a friend. Isabelle. Does that name sound familiar?â Mary shook her head. âShe said Isabelle was your fatherâs sister.â
Mary frowned. âThat would make her my aunt. But I didnât think I had any relatives, apart from my mother.â
âAnd she said,â Flora continued, âthat after the fire, Isabelle was never the same.â
âWhat did she mean?â
âIâm not sure, but then Mrs. Fitzpatrick told me that her mother used to say â¦â Flora stopped again. âThis is the hard part. She said her mother used to say that if someone wanted to leave his life behind and start over, like with a new identity, the fire would have been a good way to do that.â
Flora looked anxiously at Mary, searching for signs that she had upset her friend. She saw instead that Maryâs lined face had softened.
âAh,â said Mary. âI understand.â
âYou do?â
Mary stood and crossed the room to a littered desk. âI have something to show you.â She ignored the papers spilling off the surface of the desk and opened a drawer. She withdrew a sheet of blue stationery. âI found this several months ago,â she said, âwith some of my motherâs
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